Winter
by aldalindil
Summary: After speaking with Igor Karkaroff at the Yule Ball in GoF, Snape reflects upon his past. Time is supposed to heal all wounds, but there are some marks it can never erase. Snape/Karkaroff slash.


**Disclaimer:** Severus Snape, Igor Karkaroff, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Durmstrang, and all related characters and materials are property of J.K. Rowling, not me. Some material in this story has been paraphrased and, in some cases, quoted from "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire," and I do not claim to own it.  
  
**Archiving:** The Severus Snape Fuh-Q Fest Archive and anyone else who wants it. Please ask first, though.  
  
**Author's Notes:** Part of the Severus Snape Fuh-Q Fest, written for the Second Wave, combining Scenario 35: "Karkaroff: The Visit. Igor & Severus renew their...acquaintance?" and Scenario 36: "Karkaroff: Young Sev goes to Durmstrang on a 3 month student exchange." Thanks to my fiancé, Nick, for being my sounding board/ beta reader, and to Dovie, for doing an amazing job of beta-ing. This story alternates between the present-day (during GoF) and Snape's flashbacks. Flashbacks are in italics. Feedback is greatly appreciated, so please review!  
***************  
  
"The winter here's cold, and bitter,  
it's chilled us to the bone.  
We haven't seen the sun for weeks,  
too long too far from home.  
I feel just like I'm sinking,  
and I claw for solid ground.  
I'm pulled down by the undertow,  
I never thought I could feel so low.  
Oh, darkness, I feel like letting go..." ~ Sarah McLachlan, 'Full of Grace'  
  
  


**Winter  
*****

  
  
_"Then flee. Flee— I will make your excuses,"_ he had said, not two hours before. Severus Snape groaned softly, sinking back into his green velvet armchair. He had been staring into the grey stone fireplace, at the flames cackling with sinister glee, for over an hour now. This had been a long night already, and promised to become even longer. Sighing, he raised his glass to his lips and drank, shuddering as the gin and tonic— heavy on the gin, which was extremely dry and only a few degrees above freezing— slithered down his throat like a serpent of ice and bitterness. Ah, bitterness. Nothing sweet existed, where Igor was concerned. There had never been sweetness. Not with him.  
Snape sighed again, softly, wrapping his long fingers around the frosty indifference of the glass, relishing the biting chill against his flesh. He held the pain close, like something precious, so the memories would not be conjured in the cruel merging of flame and darkness and drink. His efforts were in vain, though, as they invariably were. He came, appearing first as a voice, and then a face, in the flickering transience of light and shadow, and the crackle of flame. Severus Snape, ever the coward, closed his eyes in submission to the inevitable and segued...  
* * *  
_"Ah, Severus Snape. I have heard much about you," he said. "My name is Professor Karkaroff, and I am the Dark Arts instructor here at Durmstrang." He extended a hand, and then smiled winningly above his black goatee. "Defense **Against** the Dark Arts, of course."  
Snape, seventeen, all awkward angles and eager to impress, shook his hand and cursed his own palm for being sweaty. He had just arrived at Durmstrang for a three-month study-abroad course, and was positively dying to make a good first impression. "Pleased to meet you, Professor," he smiled, careful not to show his teeth. "I have heard one can learn more about the Dark Arts here than anywhere else in Europe."  
"Quite so." Karkaroff smiled again, displaying a row of perfectly straight and pearly teeth. Snape noted that his hand was quite soft, and that— even at arm's length—the man smelled of some sort of cologne. Rather musky, but certainly not unpleasant.  
"But sir," Snape continued hesitantly, not wanting to push his new professor, "how have you heard anything about **me**?"  
"Oh, my niece teaches at Hogwarts. I am sure you know her... Professor Austor?"  
Snape raised an eyebrow at this. Surely Karkaroff—who looked to be in his early thirties—could not possibly have a niece as old as Professor Austor? But then, some families **did** have odd age differences... He shrugged slightly, dismissing the peculiarity. "Yes, she is my mentor. In fact, Professor Austor and I are quite close," he said, smiling.  
Karkaroff returned the smile, his blue eyes glinting like the snow that lay thick about their feet. "Wonderful!" He positively beamed, giving Snape that single word as if it were a jewel, all pomegranate red and dripping juice. "Well, I will show you to your new dormitory." He squeezed Snape's shoulder firmly, steering him into the castle. "Perhaps we will have opportunity, while you are here, to become...close... as well."_  
* * *  
Snape drank deeply, the gin serpent chasing its tail down his throat. Would this torture never end? Would he never be free of these midnight spectres, these memories of self? His fingers tightened around the glass, and he looked down; saw flame reflected, infinite, in the crystalline purity of the liquid. He saw his skin glow golden, caressed by the light. Closing his eyes again, he saw firelight, and furs, and skin, and he segued...  
* * *  
_He felt the brush of fur against his cheek before the man spoke. Smiling slightly, he turned and raised a brow in inquiry. "Your grip is wrong, Snape," Karkaroff said curtly, leaning over him to correct his hand on the wand. "Hold it nearer the base of the wand for this hex. It will increase the effects."  
Snape nodded, flushing. "Yes, sir."  
Karkaroff leaned closer, leaving his hand to linger on Snape's, and massaging gently with his thumb. Snape could see his breath in the chill air of the classroom, could smell the musky cologne he always wore. "And Severus," Karkaroff whispered, drawing out his name like a caress, "meet me in my quarters tonight. Nine o'clock."  
Snape nodded almost imperceptibly, smiling again inwardly. With a final fatherly pat on the shoulder, Karkaroff left to go correct another student. Snape watched him out of the corner of his eye as he cast the hex on a Muggle brought in specifically for this purpose— who would, of course, be subjected to Obliviate later. As he did so, he mused upon their relationship and allowed his thoughts to wander to the circumstances that had brought them together.  
He, of course, had known he was attracted to men for years, ever since he'd had the misfortune of having a crush on a certain werewolf named Remus Lupin in his fourth year at Hogwarts. That attraction had come to a rather abrupt end when said werewolf (and his friends) tried to murder him at the end of his sixth year. And, logically, that was **why** he was at Durmstrang in the first place. Studying abroad enabled him not only to put as much distance as possible between himself and the werewolf, but the exchange programme also had the added bonus of providing a way to learn all he could about the Dark Arts, Dark creatures, and— most importantly— how to defend oneself against them. Of course, learning how to **use** the Dark Arts and not just how to fight them was rather nice, as well. There were several people in the world— Remus Lupin and Sirius Black among them—for whom Jelly-Legs and Furnunculus were far, far too gentle.  
Enter Karkaroff. Snape had been in awe of the man even before he arrived at Durmstrang, for everyone knew Igor Karkaroff knew more about the Dark Arts than almost anyone else. Something of a child prodigy while at school, he had begun teaching at Durmstrang the year after he finished. Snape, himself possessed of far more than the average mind, wanted to impress Karkaroff from the start. More than that. He wanted to study under him, become his favourite pupil, learn absolutely everything the Dark Arts master could teach him...  
Their first meeting had been brief. A simple exchange of words, pleasantries, a handshake above the snow. Their hands had clasped for a moment, parting after a fleeting touch. Their eyes had lingered; black met blue and offered unendingly: "I am here. Will you have me?"  
Blue glinted in answer; sun on ice, blinding and unreadable. Outwardly, he smiled. "Wonderful!" It was affirmation. Benediction. A pomegranate; ruby red above the virgin snow. Snape, a willing Persephone, stepped forward into winter.  
"Perhaps we will have opportunity, while you are here, to become...close... as well."  
It was a beginning._  
* * *  
_"We will...become...close..."_ Severus Snape's eyes flew open, his lips parting in a silent gasp. Would this waking nightmare never end? Shaking fingers gripped the glass tighter, absorbing the chill, becoming icicles of flesh... He shivered, drank, and stared into the fire, willing the memories not to come again. The fire flickered gaily, mocking him with the orange and golden glow of passion. A picture formed in the gilded light, of a room years ago and far away, and again he segued...  
* * *  
_Fur tickled his cheek as he nuzzled the bearskin rug in front of the hearth. Karkaroff, lost in the aftermath of orgasm, collapsed beside him, breathing heavily. "Mmm," he murmured silkily. "You were wonderful, my Severus."  
Snape smiled, rolling onto his side and propping himself up on one elbow. "You always say that," he replied as he leaned over to kiss Karkaroff's shoulder.  
Karkaroff laughed. "Perhaps it is because you always **are** marvellous in bed." He reached up a soft hand to stroke Snape's cheek, caressing with his thumb. Snape leaned into his touch, closing his eyes and seeing firelight flickering through his lids.  
"Oh, Igor, I love you," he whispered unthinkingly.  
Karkaroff laughed again, but the sound had an edge this time, like winter. "Love?" he repeated, drawing a fingertip lazily down Snape's jaw. "What does a boy like you know of love?"  
Snape stiffened, bristling. He opened his eyes and looked into Karkaroff's face. "I'm not a boy," he protested quietly. "I am a man, who knows that he loves you."  
Karkaroff sighed impatiently, reaching over to retrieve his wand, which lay to the side of the rug. He sat up and, as Snape watched, puzzled, Karkaroff tapped the wand to his left forearm. Still holding the wand in his right hand, he thrust his left arm in Snape's face. Snape's eyes widened as he saw the mark that had been revealed, and his gaze flew to Karkaroff's face.  
"You see?" Karkaroff said softly, lowering his arm. "You should not love me. After all, I am evil." He said this half-mockingly, and his eyes glinted like ice hard and calculating.  
Snape raised an eyebrow. "There is no good and evil," he said quietly, reaching out to take Karkaroff's hand in his, thinking of the so-called "noble" Gryffindors—Hogwarts' golden boys— who had tried to kill him. Surely Voldemort would understand, as Dumbledore did not, that "Slytherin" was not synonymous with "evil." Were Dumbledore and McGonagall not as biased and prejudiced as the man they claimed to oppose? Snape looked into Karkaroff's eyes and stepped further into cold. "There is no black and white. There are only shades of grey, and those who are too blind to see that."  
Karkaroff smiled slowly above his silky black goatee. "Ah, wise boy," he whispered, squeezing Snape's hand tightly. "I knew you would see things as I do." Still holding Snape's hand, he leaned over and set his wand down again. He then lay down on the rug and slid his hand slowly up Snape's arm to rest on his shoulder before speaking again. "Would you like to...meet others... who think as we do, my Severus?"  
Snape's eyebrows rose as he considered this. He knew, of course, precisely who these "others" were, and what "meeting" them would entail. One did not simply sit in on a Death Eater gathering and then decide that no, thank you, it was not for them. Oh no. He knew if he said "yes", he would be crossing a line... setting foot on a path from which he could never turn back. He looked deep into Karkaroff's eyes. Blue eyes met black and offered coldly, "You say you love me? Prove it." Black eyes met blue and said, "I do, and I will."  
Outwardly, Snape shrugged, smirking. "I might as well, or you'll just cast Obliviate on me," he said. "And I'd hate to forget what came before you asked."  
Karkaroff laughed, his eyes glittering like snow. "Wonderful!" That word again, full and juicy with promise. "You'll come with me, the next time I am called."_  
* * *  
Snape sighed again, resigning himself to his fate. The room grew darker as the fire consumed itself, but he did not rise to put another log on, for was the darkness not fitting, for this? He knew what would come next, and he set the glass down on the coffee table with a precise, but jerky movement. Settling back in his chair, he drew back the left sleeve of his robes and traced a fingertip over the mark—almost as black as his robes— upon his skin. Closing his eyes yet again, he drew a deep breath, still running his fingertips over his arm as if, in his flesh, he could read the past in some twisted Braille of scars and skin, and one small, permanent brand. He saw the symbol's imprint behind his eyes, remembered the sear and smell of burning flesh, and he segued...  
* * *  
_Karkaroff had gripped his left forearm convulsively a moment ago, and they had Apparated at once. Swallowing nervously, Snape followed him down a torchlit stone stairway into a large, stone, underground room. A circle of hooded, black-robed figures stood with bowed heads around a large and ornately carved wooden throne, upon which sat a tall, thin man. He was almost ghostly pale and aristocratically handsome, with dark hair gleaming in the torchlight above equally dark robes. He was smiling at them as they approached. He was Lord Voldemort.  
"Ah, Igor," he said softly, as Snape and Karkaroff entered the circle. Snape hung back as Karkaroff stepped forward, knelt at the Dark Lord's feet, and kissed the hem of his robes.  
"My lord," he murmured reverently, stepping back and lowering his head.  
Voldemort looked languidly from Karkaroff to Snape, a small, amused smile on his face. "You have brought me a new Death Eater." It wasn't a question.  
"Yes, lord," Karkaroff whispered, lifting his face to give Voldemort a long, unreadable look. After a moment, he bowed his head again. "If he is acceptable to you, of course."  
Voldemort nodded, seeming even more amused. "Naturally," he agreed silkily, still watching Snape with hooded eyes. Though he had a strong urge to look away, Snape forced himself to meet Voldemort's gaze. The Dark Lord raised an eyebrow slightly as he spoke. "You are, of course, of pure, uncontaminated wizarding stock."  
Snape nodded quickly, though that had not really been a question, either. "Yes, sir." He swallowed, wondering if "sir" was the wrong thing to say. But then, Voldemort was not officially **his** lord yet, so perhaps saying "my lord" would have been presumptuous... To his relief, Voldemort laughed. The sound was cold, but not without mirth.  
"Still at school, I see." Snape nodded, flushing slightly. "And you wish to join my followers."  
Snape nodded yet again, silently, not wanting to call him "sir" again, but still uncertain if "my Lord" was the correct form of address.  
Voldemort made a dismissive gesture with his hand, almost as if he were brushing away a fly. "Very well," he murmured. "What is your name, boy?"  
"Severus Snape..." Damn it, what to call the man? He swallowed hard. "...my lord."  
Voldemort nodded absently, pointing a long, pale finger at the floor in front of his throne. "Come, Severus." Taking a deep breath, Snape stepped forward to the spot Voldemort had indicated and looked up at him, awaiting further instruction. Voldemort raised an eyebrow again and held out his right hand, palm facing upwards. "Give me your wand." He said this in much the same tone as one might say, 'Please pass the tea,' but his dark gaze fixed upon Snape intently, like a cat watches a mouse, just before pouncing.  
Snape swallowed, feeling as though the man had just asked him to surrender a part of his body, or his soul. He immediately reached into the sleeve of his robes, however, and withdrew his wand. Willing his hand not to shake, he took his wand by the tip and held the base out to Voldemort wordlessly.  
At this, Voldemort straightened at once, casting aside his languid façade. He took the wand, staring at Snape with a feral smile. The hairs on the back of Snape's neck prickled as he suddenly remembered his feelings of shock and horror at seeing sweet, gentle Remus Lupin snarling at him, lunging in a whirl of snapping teeth and fur and certain death... A cold wave of dread washed over Snape, and he looked up to see Voldemort's dark eyes raking over him like claws. They gleamed dully, as though they were pools of blood. "Your left arm, Severus."  
"Yes, my lord," Snape whispered, the words falling tonelessly from frozen lips. Still willing himself not to tremble, he slowly extended his left arm. The Dark Lord's left hand snaked out and grabbed Snape's wrist in an iron grip. Snape involuntarily looked down at his arm and tried to jerk back, but Voldemort's fingers tightened, grinding Snape's bones together with such strength as he never would have imagined coming from such a slender hand. Unable to keep from shaking now, Snape raised his head and looked fearfully at the Dark Lord. Voldemort gazed at him with a frightening intensity. Without a word, he placed the tip of the wand on Snape's arm, digging the wooden point into his flesh. Snape gasped loudly a second later as his skin began to burn. No misfired hex, not even an exploding boil cure, had ever felt like this. His arm felt as though the wand's tip were made of flame, slowly searing a path through his flesh and carving mercilessly into bone... Blinded by tears, Snape closed his eyes tightly, seeing red and black spirals swirling behind his lids. Voldemort's grasp tightened yet again, locking around Snape's wrist like a vice, and he ground the burning wand deeper still. Snape bit the inside of his cheek, swallowing a scream and tasting blood. He smelled the sickly sweet scent of charred flesh and tried not to gag, envisioning his skin popping and cracking in black particles, like roasted meat, exposing his bones...  
After a moment that seemed to last an eternity— after a final, blinding blaze of pain— Snape screamed at last, falling heavily to his knees, his wrist still clutched in Voldemort's deathgrip. The Dark Lord released him, and Snape fell to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably and cradling his left arm to his chest. Over his own wracking sobs, he heard the rustle of robes as the Dark Lord stood. "Welcome to the Death Eaters, my Severus," Voldemort said softly, but in a voice that echoed off of the walls. "From this moment on, you have two choices. Obey me and earn great power...or die." Something clattered to the floor in front of Snape's face, and he opened his eyes to see his wand rolling to a stop in front of his nose. Laughing quietly, Voldemort stepped over him with careless grace. Snape sat up slowly, sniffling, still clutching his left arm close to his body, afraid to look. He watched as Voldemort went into an adjoining chamber, motioning for two of the hooded Death Eaters to follow.  
When the door had closed behind them, Snape looked over at Karkaroff. He did not know what he expected to find in his lover's face—Approval? Concern? Comfort? —but the blue eyes simply stared back at him, hard as ice, before looking away. Something bitter and withering, like poison, rose in the back of Snape's throat. Setting his jaw, he looked down and slowly pulled his arm away from his chest. To his surprise, the skin had not burned away. Instead, upon his pale flesh, a small black brand throbbed. He would have laughed at how insignificant it looked, had Voldemort's words not been echoing in his mind. "Obey me and earn great power...or die." Gazing at the black Mark and thinking of blue eyes and shades of grey, Snape knew suddenly, certainly, that no matter which of those two paths he took, he would be alone._  
* * *  
The room was completely dark now, as Snape opened his eyes. He reached up to wipe the tears from his cheeks, cursing himself for being weak. His hand fumbled about as he exhaled with a shaky sigh. After he had found the table, he ran his fingers lightly over the surface until they came in contact with his glass. He picked up his gin and drank deeply, desperately seeking peace. Though the room was frigid, the smoothness of the glass was slick and wet in his hand, and the condensation mingled with the tears already coating his palms. Snape noted distantly that, in the dark, the tears and water felt like cold blood... He closed his eyes to shut out the dark, feeling alone— as always— in a sea of chill and black whose waters could never wash away the blood on his hands. Sighing again, he thought of cold and loneliness, and he segued...  
* * *  
_"This is madness, Severus. It will never work." Karkaroff said this almost as if he feared it would, in a voice thin and sour as old wine.  
Snape sighed, tracing his fingertips lightly over the Karkaroff's collarbone. "It will, Igor. And even if it doesn't..." he sighed again, helplessly. "Death is better than this."  
Karkaroff frowned petulantly, pushing Snape's hand away. "I hate him as much as you do!" he exclaimed, his accent thicker than usual, as it always was when he became angry. "I am tired of risking my life when I gain nothing in return! We were promised power. Power, Severus! And yet we sit and bow and do nothing. But death is no answer."  
Snape closed his eyes and withdrew his hand, shaking his head slightly. "I'm not talking about power, Igor," he replied, feeling as though he was trying to explain a simple concept to a child who simply could not understand. "It never **was** about power, for me. I thought..." I thought you would love me. I thought I could prove myself. I thought...Snape sighed yet again, knowing that Karkaroff would not— or **could** not— understand any of these sentiments. "...I thought I made the right decision in joining the Death Eaters. I was wrong."  
"You were wrong," Karkaroff echoed flatly. "I thought you understood, Severus." His tone was distant, disappointed, as though they were still professor and student, and Snape had given an incorrect answer in class.  
Snape almost laughed, realising for the thousandth time that, to Karkaroff, he was still only an infatuated student. Pain knifed through his breast at the thought, as it always did, and he opened his eyes and looked at the man he loved. "Oh, Igor," he whispered sadly, reaching out to stroke Karkaroff's cheek, "I thought I did, too." And I thought** you** did, he added silently.  
Karkaroff simply stared at him coldly for a moment before closing his eyes, shuttering winter. "You do not have to go."  
Snape shook his head again, dark hair falling into his eyes. "I do. But you could come with me..."  
Sighing, Karkaroff rolled over, away from Snape. "I will serve him until I die, Severus. At least my death not be at his hand."  
Snape nodded silently, leaning over to kiss Karkaroff's shoulder gently. Love burned through his chest, met the icy cruelty of regret and froze, dropping like a stone into the pit of his stomach. "I love you," he whispered, almost unthinkingly.  
"Just go, Severus," Karkaroff replied harshly. "And do not expect me to make any excuses for you."  
His eyes brimming with unshed tears, Snape pulled back and nodded again as he rose to dress. He walked out of the room and closed the door quietly before he finally allowed his tears to fall.  
Several moments later, Snape tossed some Floo powder into the living room hearth and stepped in, heading for Britain for the first time since he had finished at Hogwarts three years before.  
Snape stepped out into the headmaster's office two minutes early for their appointment, inhaling deeply as the warm scents of daffodils and lemon drops enveloped him. Albus Dumbledore looked up from his desk, his blue eyes shining like crocuses against the snowy white of his hair and beard. He stood and opened his arms, smiling gently. "Ah, Severus. You've come home at last."_  
* * *  
Snape exhaled, almost shaking with relief. The darkness had passed, and he could allow himself light once more. He set the glass down on the table and drew his wand. "Lumos," he whispered hoarsely. Bathed in the soft blue glow, Snape walked over to the fireplace and stirred the ashes before building the flames back to life. He then resumed his seat and poured himself another drink. Gin and tonic again, though even the frigid liquid could not chill him, for his heart had frozen long ago. He drank, remembering that once, he had thought the warmth of daffodil- and lemon-scented spring could thaw him, creature of ice and distance that he had become. Swallowing and tasting bitterness, he thought— as always— of Karkaroff. The gin coursed like a cold serpent through his veins, and he remembered again the very moment when he had frozen forever. The moment **time** had frozen forever, for him. The last moment Severus Snape had truly lived, and the most painful. Tears threatened to fall once more, as Snape closed his eyes and segued...  
* * *  
_At precisely four o'clock, Snape knocked upon and opened the headmaster's office door, walking in immediately. Hands clenched into fists at his sides, he swept over to stand before Dumbledore's desk. "Did you see him?" he asked anxiously, not caring— for once— that his voice betrayed his emotions.  
Dumbledore looked up at him and smiled softly, gesturing to one of the chairs in front of the desk. "Have a seat, my boy. Would you care for some tea? I've only just returned, and I was just about to pour a bit for myself."  
Snape shook his head quickly and took a seat, clasping his hands tightly in his lap. Dumbledore nodded and poured two cups of the steaming jasmine tea anyway, pushing one across the desk to Snape. "Drink," he said quietly. "You need something to do with your hands, before you wring them off."  
Smiling a little in spite of himself, Snape took the mug. He drank, shivering as the heat penetrated him. "I'm sorry, Headmaster," he said at last. "I'm just..." He sighed and took a sip of tea. "It's been two years since I've really spoken to him. Six months since Voldemort fell, and yet he hasn't owled me. Not once." For a moment, he paused, wondering why, precisely, that he always ended up telling Dumbledore everything that was on his mind. He looked into the headmaster's eyes and continued in a whisper. "I thought he would. And...I need to know he is all right. Is he going to Azkaban? Did he ask you if **I** was still alive?" Snape took another sip of tea and stared at the floor, preparing himself for Dumbledore's answer.  
They sat in silence for a moment, and at last Snape looked up. Dumbledore sat quite still, looking— for once— very old, tired, and frail. He smiled sadly at Snape, though his eyes lacked their usual twinkle. "Oh, my dear boy," he murmured quietly. "I wish I had good news for you. The best I can offer, however, is that no, Igor will not be sentenced to Azkaban for life."  
Snape exhaled shakily, letting out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "But...that's wonderful!" he exclaimed.  
Dumbledore looked grave. "I suppose it is," he said slowly, moving his head from side to side—his way of expressing that an answer was close, but not quite correct. "And yet...it is not."  
"Why do you say that?" Snape raised an eyebrow, familiar with the gesture, but not understanding.  
With a soft sigh, Dumbledore set his teacup down on the desk and leaned his elbows on the table, pressing his fingertips together. After a moment he nodded slowly, as if making up his mind about something. "I think I ought to let you see for yourself, Severus."  
Snape frowned into his teacup, still puzzled. "What do you mean?"  
The headmaster's free hand gestured to a cabinet along the far wall as he took a sip of tea. "I keep a Pensieve, Severus." He smiled, raising a snowy brow. "When one has lived as long as I have, the mind often becomes...well... rather cluttered. I have found a bit of light mental housekeeping now and then helps me distance myself from my thoughts, so that I can see them more clearly."  
Snape merely nodded, choosing to ignore the horrid play on words. "And...you would be willing to let me look into your Pensieve?" He asked this incredulously, knowing what private and personal things they were.  
"Of course, my dear boy." Dumbledore shrugged, as if it were nothing. "I would trust you with my life."  
A rush of love for the old man so strong that he almost felt pain had Snape swallowing hard as he nodded again. For the thousandth time, he wondered how he could have ever been such an utter idiot in his youth. He took another sip of tea. "Thank you," he whispered.  
Dumbledore shrugged again, his eyes twinkling, and then he stood and brushed a few stray drops of tea off of his violet robes. "Now. If you'll just wait a moment while I rid myself of the memory..." He opened the cabinet and removed a glowing, shallow stone basin, which he brought over to the desk. Snape watched silently as the headmaster took out his wand and placed the tip into his hair, near his temple. When he withdrew it a moment later, a long strand of silvery thought clung to the end. Dumbledore touched the tip of the wand to the shimmering swirl inside the Pensieve and stirred gently, adding the fresh memory. He took a deep breath and looked up at Snape, gesturing to the basin. "Whenever you are prepared, my boy."  
Snape rose from the chair, nodding. He stepped up to the desk and looked down into the swirling, shimmering maelstrom. A hand on his shoulder stopped him before he touched the liquid, and he looked over at Dumbledore. The headmaster's brows were knit with concern. "Would you like me to go with you?" Snape shook his head. "If it's as bad as you say, Headmaster, I think...I think this is something I have to see alone."  
Dumbledore nodded, squeezing Snape's shoulder gently. "I will be here when you return."  
His walls erected themselves again, allowing Snape to become cold stone once more. He nodded and retreated into his stronghold, closing his eyes in defence against the old man's unceasing warmth. Without a word, he opened his eyes and looked down into the Pensieve, drew his wand, and stirred the contents. The quicksilver substance inside began to swirl faster and faster, and a room appeared in the stone depths. Almost carelessly, Snape reached out a hand and touched the silver...  
Gasping softly as Dumbledore's office seemed to tilt and pitch him into the basin, Snape closed his eyes again to deny the cold and grasping blackness. A jolt made him open his eyes to find himself seated in the all-too-familiar underground courtroom where the Ministry tried their most dangerous criminals. He shivered involuntarily as he looked to the front and saw the empty chair in the centre of the room, remembering how he had felt when he sat there only a few months ago... Snape turned quickly to his right and sighed with relief to see the headmaster sitting next to him, even if it was only Dumbledore's memory of himself.  
He looked to the front of the room again as the door opened, and gasped painfully as Karkaroff entered, guarded by two Dementors. He looked exactly the same. Damn it, beneath the ragged robes, he looked the same as he always had. The bitterness rose again, cold as ice, in Snape's throat. Karkaroff was not injured. He was not dead. Then, gods, why had he not owled? Why...? Snape's thoughts were cut short as the trial began, and he balled his hands into fists in his lap, nails digging deep into his palms.  
He sat, shaking with emotion, as he watched Karkaroff answer Crouch's questions. Listening to the man he had once idolised speak in such a grovelling manner—like a dog, begging for a treat—made Snape want to vomit. How could his lover, supposedly so much stronger than he, be such a snivelling coward? Snape sighed quietly, looking over at Dumbledore. Was this what the headmaster had wanted him to see? Did he think Snape would be disgusted with Karkaroff and cease to love him? Snape frowned intensely, looking back at Karkaroff. Certainly, he was not impressed with his performance, but the Slytherin in him admired the man's sense of self-preservation. In fact, part of Snape yearned to run down and comfort Karkaroff, to protect him and love him, no matter what the cost to himself.  
He snapped back to attention at Crouch's next words. "Very well, Karkaroff, if that is all, you will be returned to Azkaban while we decide..."  
"Not yet!" cried Karkaroff desperately, sweating and pale. "Wait, I have more!"  
Snape's chest contracted painfully, aching for the man he loved. All he wanted to **do** was go and help him somehow—anyhow! Why was Dumbledore torturing him by making him watch this?  
"Snape!" Karkaroff shouted. "Severus Snape!"  
Time stopped suddenly, slamming into Snape's stomach like a fist. He froze and sat open-mouthed, unable to tear his eyes away from Karkaroff's face.  
"Snape has been cleared by this council," Crouch replied with a sniff. "He has been vouched for by Albus Dumbledore."  
"No!" cried Karkaroff, straining against his bonds, a look of wild intensity upon his face. "I assure you! Severus Snape is a Death Eater!"  
"I think that is enough," murmured a quiet voice on Snape's left. Snape turned numbly to see the headmaster sitting on the bench next to him, gazing up at him with eyes full of tears. "Come, my dear boy." Dumbledore put a hand gently on Snape's elbow, helping him up. Snape allowed himself to be led back to the headmaster's office, hardly aware of the return trip. Once they had landed, Dumbledore put his arms around Snape, a father comforting a beloved son. Snape stood stiffly enduring the embrace, though he longed to throw his arms around the headmaster's neck and weep like a child. After a moment, Dumbledore stepped back and looked at him sadly. "I told them again, of course, that you are now no more a Death Eater than I am."  
Snape nodded, not quite trusting his voice. He cleared his throat. "Thank you."  
The headmaster shook his head slowly. "Do not thank me, Severus. I've just hurt you terribly... And though it was necessary for you to see, I am sorry I had to show you."  
"No," Snape said coldly, with a vehement shake of his head, digging his fingernails into his raw palms again. "Thank you for that, as well. You are quite correct—I did need to see that for myself." He hunched his shoulders against the weight of the pain that threatened to engulf him and headed for the door, trying not to see the helpless look on the headmaster's face. He had just placed his hand on the golden doorknob when Dumbledore spoke again.  
"Severus?"  
Snape turned at the quiet word, schooling his face to keep his features impassive as he raised an eyebrow in inquiry.  
Dumbledore sighed. "For your own sake, my dear boy... learn to love again. Love another. A man worthy of you."  
Snape nodded curtly. "I will."  
Having lied to Albus Dumbledore for the first time, Snape walked out and closed the door behind him._  
* * *  
Severus Snape shuddered and looked into the flames, coming back to himself slowly. His words from a few hours ago seemed to echo again in the chill air of the room. "Then flee. Flee—I will make your excuses." He shook his head in self-disgust. He and Karkaroff had seen each other for the first time in over fifteen years when the ship from Durmstrang had arrived for the bloody Triwizard Tournament. Snape had nearly laughed to see Karkaroff's new...protégé... The boy, Krum, with his huge nose and thick black hair, could almost have been Snape himself at seventeen. After seeing Karkaroff and his new lover, Snape had thought he could finally let go of the past. He sighed, frowning, as he remembered how very wrong he had been. He and Karkaroff had first spoken to one another after the names were drawn from the Goblet, and all of the old burning coldness was still there. Merlin only knew what Albus, Minerva, and the champions must have thought of the both of them, snapping and snarling at one another. That night, Karkaroff had knocked on his bedroom door, pleading in that silken voice of his to be let in. He had explained that Krum was only an affair, nothing more, and that he had given his heart to Snape years ago.  
Snape had almost laughed again, knowing he was too old and too damned tired to play Karkaroff's games again. He had let Karkaroff into his bed anyway, however, because the night was cold. The dregs of autumn faded to winter, and still Karkaroff came. Snape tasted again and again the fruits he had forbidden himself from wanting. Winter drew on, and he went deeper, wanting more. And tonight the affair had ended again; history through a looking-glass, repeating itself backwards. Karkaroff had begged him to go with him, to run from the inescapable return of Voldemort.  
Snape closed his eyes tightly, as if darkness could silence the words that chased one another through his mind.  
"Then flee," he had snapped at Karkaroff, hearing other words from long ago.  
_("Just go, Severus. And do not expect me to make any excuses for you.")_  
"Flee," Snape repeated more gently, still loving him in spite of everything. "I will make your excuses."  
It was a final offering— the tiniest spark of warmth, surrendered to the depths of winter. They had paused in the snow, looking at one another silently. Black eyes held blue and offered once more: "I give you this, all I can promise." Blue darkened like stormclouds and closed in rejection: "It is not enough."  
Snape started as a knock sounded upon the door. With a sigh, he slumped down into his armchair and drew his robes more tightly around himself, feeling the cold. "Go away, Igor," he called tonelessly, his lips numb and frozen.  
The knock came again, more insistently. "Severus..." That voice, warm and red as the centre of a ruby. Snape shook his head silently, knowing well the cold comfort given by stone.  
After a moment, Snape heard footsteps retreating and sighed softly with relief, sinking deeper into his chair and contemplating sleep. A tapping at the window, however, made him sit bolt upright. "Damn it, Igor!" he muttered as a large tawny owl swooped in and dropped an envelope in his lap. Did the fool actually think love notes would bridge the gap of pain and years between them?  
Sighing again, he opened the envelope with cold fingers and unfolded the letter. After the first line, his eyes widened with surprise, and he gaped at the parchment, reading quickly.  
—————  
Dear Severus,  
Perhaps I'm being a bit of an optimistic idiot in writing this, but I think we would both agree that the score has been settled between us. I've hurt you, and you've hurt me... Do you think it's time we could let go of the past and start over? Contrary to what you may believe, I certainly don't hate you. Quite the opposite, in fact. You have done so much for me that I cannot even begin to express my gratitude. Even if you are an unbearable ass occasionally, for some strange reason I find that I am...rather fond of you anyway. Incredibly fond of you. In fact, I think I may be in love with you.  
You know where to find me, should you wish to discuss this matter. Happy Christmas, Severus—I wish you all the joy in the world, if you would only allow yourself to feel it.  
Yours,  
————  
Snape stared down at the signature in shock for several moments before reading the letter over again. When he reached the last line, a tentative smile slowly spread across his face. At last he rose, still clutching the parchment. Though it was well after curfew—almost dawn, in fact—he headed for the door, unable to wait until morning for this particular conversation.  
As he stepped out into the corridor, Severus Snape could almost swear that, hidden amid the heady aromas of gingerbread and pine, he could almost discern a faint scent of daffodils. A promise of spring stirring in the heart of winter. 


End file.
